


Infinity dust

by 40sgal96



Series: Pan immortal [1]
Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: 'Neverland publishing', Crime, Drama, Drug trafficking, F/F, F/M, Love, Murder, Sex, majorshipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/40sgal96/pseuds/40sgal96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Wendy ever wanted to be was a writer. And when she lands the job of a lifetime, she thinks she's well on her way. THINKS. Neverland Publishing is known as the biggest publishing house in London; run by a mysterious CEO, Mr Pan, a young, explicitly handsome man who is now worth millions. Nobody can touch him; wrapped in his shield of money, he is virtually invincible. One could even say he was immortal. Nobody knows the real Pan at all.<br/>When Wendy is drawn into Neverland by her dream, she finds herself surrounded in scandal and deadly secrets. But Pan cannot let her go. He becomes possessive of the beautiful, little bird which is the Darling girl, and for once, he yearns to keep something he know he shouldn't have. Even if it means surrounding her in crime, danger, and a ruthless drug enterprise that  the immortal will never give up his Wendy-bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinity dust

**Author's Note:**

> My first fan-fic on this sight! I hope you like it. This is basically a modern version of 'Peter Pan and Wendy', written by J.M Barrie. Warning: It may not be the best, but I really do hope you like it :)

"Miss, where do you want these?"

Oh god-I'd been so busy staring at my phone, I'd barely noticed the movers coming upstairs-box wheelers in tow. Oh dear, why did I have to bring so much stuff with me? Oh yeah, because dad wanted my room cleared out by the end of today. Honestly, it wasn't very fair! I'd only just gotten here, and it was already the middle of the afternoon. Was it too much to ask, just to leave at least half of my stuff in the garage, and pick it up tomorrow? Apparently not. 'I hired the movers for TODAY Wendy. I'm not forking out for two days of moving, when you could easily get it into one'. I knew he was unreasonable, but like mum said, it was best just to leave well-enough alone. If only this place had an elevator at least. That way, the poor movers wouldn't have to lug my things up those damned stairs.

"Oh! Just put the boxes in the rooms I've labelled them for." I said, "All three of those are for the kitchen."

The place I had was surprisingly nice; surprising for a grad-student anyhow. Thanks to generous funding from my parents, and three years worth of saved wages from my part-time job at 'Smee's hardware' store, I had enough to lease a beautiful, little apartment in the inner city of London. The heart of business enterprise. It was quite possibly, the best place of all for a career woman to establish themselves. And although I didn't intend of being some high-trended, career driven girl forever, it sure as hell helped when it came to earning money. And boy, was money important. It couldn't buy you happiness, but it was practical.

"Certainly," the mover man-a short, stumpy specimen grunted, before unloading the wheeler and depositing the boxes into the kitchen.

Since they were being paid for all of this-and wouldn't accept my help, there wasn't much for me to do but hover and wait until the last of my furniture was brought up. So I pulled out my little, pink, smart-mini and browsed through my contacts for Nana’s number.

Wendybird: Hey Nana! How’s work treating you? 

It didn’t take long for Nana to reply. Nana, (a Nickname for Santana) wasn’t the kind of girl to socialize with the cranky, old crones at the city hospitals. And the fact that she was soon to become a nurse herself just made the irony of it more funny than snobbish. Anyhow, when it came to her shift-breaks, there was nothing Nana loved more than texting, calling, or even skyping her friends. I swear, it’s definitely a good thing that phones don’t need buttons anymore, because she would’ve worn the buttons clean off of her phones. And yes, I do say ‘Phones’. She seemed to own one for every occasion; even holidays.

NanaBanana: Hey hey! Don’t ask me about work. That ogre Gleeson nearly throttled me when I didn’t stack the antibiotics the way SHE wanted them. Ugh! That woman NEEDS to get laid. Trouble is, I can’t find a single old, DESPERATE doc in need for a charge-nurse from hell to warm their beds at night.

Wendybird: Wow...has she ever thought of online dating before?

Nanabanana: Wends, she was probably born the Renaissance. I don’t even think she knows what a telephone is.

Wendybird: Come on, she can’t be that bad.

Nanabanana: She hasn’t even heard of tweezers! Check this out:

After the text came a photo of the discussed charge-nurse Gleeson, with the wildest pair of facial monstrosities, owning a good portion of her aged, no-nonsense face. Christ, she really hasn’t heard of tweezers! But wait-she wouldn’t really let Nana take her picture. Would she?

Wendybird: Nana! Does she know you’ve just taken her picture??

Nanabanana: Of course not! She’d have my head if she did. And how would she ever find out? It’s not as if she’s heard of social media before, and plus, I’ve only sent the picture to you. All it well (If you keep your mouth shut!)

Wendybird: Fine :( So when do you knock off tonight?

Nanabanana: Not until much later :( Got to work a late shift to make up for skiving off yesterday. Do you want to do something tomorrow?

Wendybird: Not until tomorrow night though. I’ve got two interviews lined up, and another one on Wednesday.

Nanabanana: All good :) Text me when you’re done for the day. 

“Miss? We’re done here.” The mover called my attention.

“Oh, of course.”

Wendybird: Gtg soz, have to pay the movers.

Nanabanana: KK babe :P Will chat later.

Rummaging through my purse, I pulled out the payment envelope dad had given to me this morning and handed it to a very puffed, red-faced mover man. Poor thing; I would’ve helped him, if he’d let me. But then, it was their job to do the moving. I could’ve only hoped that he’d had at least a few more men to help him out. He wasn’t exactly young, and the elevator in the building was temporarily ‘out of service’. ‘Oh forget it Wendy!’ my conscience, which sounded oddly like Nana scolded me, ‘Just try and make your house look a little less like a pig-sty’.

And so I set about unpacking. My aunt Millicent had been good enough to give me some of her antique furniture after she’d decided to re-decorate; it was a little impractical but it would do for now, and honestly, I liked the way the Victorian décor looked in the living room. Then, I didn’t like a lot of old-fashioned things. Especially blues and greens. If I could have my way, I’d be painting the walls with sparkling waterfalls, adorned with beautiful mermaids, sitting on their pedestal rocks. Then ahead of that would be forests; miles of trees and vines, where fairies roamed and Indians lurked in the shadows. I would bring the pages of my stories onto these very walls-if it were, of course, my own home. But seeing as I was only renting, I would have to save my creativity for when I actually became the writer.

It was my dream, by the way. Ever since I was a child, I’d been making up stories; ones with princesses, mermaids and swash-buckling pirates, tearing through the pages with action, adventure and romance at their heels. My first real audience of course, were my little brothers John and Michael. And after them, the younger classes at my school. Children and teachers alike praised my stories; both telling me I should become an author when I grew up. Well, I was almost grown up now, and planning to do just that. Only, I needed money first. I’d always need the money.

And so gradually, I unpacked everything I had and settled it into what seemed to be its’ natural place. The porcelain, fairy ornaments I’d collected went on the polished, oak cabinet. The decorative canvases went along the window sill that framed a most beautiful view of the London streets. And photo-frames of me, my brother, my parents and nana...those belonged on the mantle piece about the decorative fire-place which was blocked, and replaced with a cheap gas-heater. Slowly but surely, the tiny, studio apartment became my own. And when I stood, and looked it over it its’ glory, I couldn’t help but feel proud of myself for this. My first place! Somewhere I could laugh, cry, watch back-to-back episodes of ‘Game of thrones’, and have old and new friends over for drinks, games and good memories, yet to be made. I, Wendy Moira Angela Darling was now living in the centre of London. Could this get any more exciting?


End file.
